The bar buzzed with that particular strain of artificial energy office parties always carried--laughter just a little too loud, posture just a little too casual, everyone pretending, aware of who was watching them. She sipped her drink, a gin and tonic, well made, but more prop than pleasure. Her smile was perfect, angled just enough to seem easygoing, her posture was open, turned toward the group of men nearby. She wasn't flirting. Not exactly. But they'd noticed her. They always did.
She knew how to send the signals out: a slight lean forward when she laughed, an idle finger tracing condensation on her glass, eyes lingering an extra beat on someone's mouth when they talked. It was a practiced instinct by now Even when she wasn't consciously performing, the pattern played itself out--muscle memory by now. For control. For safety. For something unnamed, but always just out of reach. For something she hadn't named yet but kept looking for anyway.
She liked them, as far as that went. And in the brief space between small talk and suggestive touches, she felt something close to intimacy. That twinge of electricity when someone shifted closer. The heat of being seen. It was the only time in her life when her body made sense--when arousal was hers to summon, command.
Sex was fine. Occasionally good. Mostly, it was a way to discharge what built up in her skin like static. Afterwards, she'd clean up and slip into oversized sweats. And yet, it always left her a little hollow.
Tonight, had started the same. The blouse she picked was a little more daring, the skirt showing just the right amount of toned leg. She'd even picked black lace underwear, assuming... And yet--half an hour in--she already knew. These men would flirt with her and imagine her in some hotel bed, and she sometimes let that happen, enough to feel desired. But not tonight. She took another sip and let her gaze wander. Not looking for anyone in particular. Maybe just... a way out.
That's when she noticed me. My clothes were nothing flashy. Dark jeans, a shirt that seemed like it could've been worn any day of the week. I clearly wasn't trying to impress anyone, and she found that oddly attractive. Most guys in the room were all about their clothes, their image. Something about me felt unexpectedly refreshing.
She liked sharp, polished, confident men who knew how to command attention. But I wasn't trying to be seen. I looked like I was there out of politeness, maybe obligation--nursing a drink I wasn't really drinking, nodding when someone near me said something. Quiet. Still. Not hiding. Just... not loud. Not trying. It was disarming. I hadn't even glanced her way, and that--
that
--made something flutter unexpectedly in her chest. There was something about the way I held myself just outside the party, watching. She'd felt powerful with the men near her, but now, for the first time all night, she felt
curious
.
She kept watching. Not openly, not even deliberately--but her gaze drifted back to me again and again. The way I sat there, still but not stiff, made her wonder what I was thinking. I didn't seem bored--just untouched by the room. Like I could hear it all, feel the same press of bodies and noise, but none of it reached me. She didn't know what it meant. Only that it felt different. Unhurried. Unneedy. It made her heart tremble again, though she tried to ignore it.
She turned back. The man beside her was saying something about the conference, leaning in a little too close--the way some men do when they mistake proximity for charm. She smiled automatically, let her fingers trail the rim of her glass like she was still listening. But something tugged at the edge of her attention. Not loud. Just there. She glanced at me again. Still sitting the same way. Still not looking for anything but watching everything. She looked away. Then looked again. It was a pull. Quiet, steady. Like something inside her had tilted in my direction and was waiting for her to follow. So, she did.
She was walking toward me.
The way she moved--fluid, graceful--impossible to ignore. Her outfit wasn't just stylish--it placed her in another world entirely, meant for someone with effortless grace and presence, far beyond mine. The way she wore it, the way she owned it. She wore confidence and elegance like silk--draped around her, part of her.
But it wasn't just her clothes. It was her beauty. The way her eyes caught the light, a depth, a radiance. Her cheeks, soft and flushed, the dimples that appeared when she smiled. The rhythm with which she moved, the ease, her style. She wasn't just beautiful; she was class and grace rolled into one.
She'd been talking to someone--no, smiling. One of those unmistakable, practiced smiles you use when flirting. I didn't think anything of it until I realized she kept glancing over. At me. I looked away, assuming I was in the way of something. The bar. The door. A reflection, maybe. But when I looked again, she was still watching.
Then she started walking. Not toward the bar. Not toward the door. Toward me.
My hand tightened on my glass. I set it down--too carefully--and wiped my palm against my jeans. Casual. Like I wasn't thinking about it. Like my heart wasn't suddenly louder than the music.
A small, unreadable smile. And then, just like that, she was there.
She sat in the chair across from me. "You don't look like you're having fun," she said.
I glanced over, caught off guard but trying not to show it. "Is it that obvious?" I asked.
"A little," she said. Then added, "Not in a bad way."
"It looked like you were having fun over there. Something go wrong?" I said.
"I didn't think you were watching," she said, sipping from her glass, eyes on me over the rim. "I don't really know... Maybe I'm tired of the usual noise," she continued. "And... you weren't trying to get me to come over."
She gave a half-shrug, like even she wasn't sure what she meant. "I just thought... you looked like someone I could talk to."
"So, you come here often?" I blurted before I could stop myself.
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that your best line?"
I shrugged and smiled--and waited.
